


Spirits in The Skies

by Sam_Nook



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 1920s, 1927, Aviation, Charles Lindbergh's flight, Paris - Freeform, first flight across the atlantic, flight, histober2020, inktober but its writing, inktober2020, prompt was 1920s, struggled writing this one whoops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:20:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26808016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sam_Nook/pseuds/Sam_Nook
Summary: Decades later, in a photographic history of aviation exhibit, Alfred found himself staring at the old photo of Charles Lindbergh and the Nameless Man. The picture was from a newspaper, it's wrinkled and torn in the corner, but he can recognize his smile even in the faded ink.
Kudos: 6





	Spirits in The Skies

**Author's Note:**

> Histober/Inktober 2020 Day Three: 1920s
> 
> The prompt was the 1920s, and I finally decided on writing about Charles Lindbergh. He is the first person to make the flight across the Atlantic Ocean on a plane. He did it by himself in a 33 1/2 hour journey from New York to Paris, France. 
> 
> I do apologize that it's short. I've hit writer's block.

Paris, France  
May 21, 1927

Alfred stared at the glass of whiskey in front of him; he wasn't sure what to do with it. It didn't sit right in his stomach, along with the glass he had just gulped down after Francis's constant whining and reassuring that his government wouldn't know. Alfred was sure that wasn't the reason his stomach turned. 

"He has three hours left before he's missed his scheduled landing." Francis murmured from his spot, leaning against the railing of the balcony. He wasn't looking at Alfred, but rather the clear skies above them. Alfred couldn't look up; he drummed his fingers against the cool marble tabletop instead, hoping that would somehow distract his turning stomach. 

Francis's gaze landed on him, bright and mischievous. "Do you think he will make it?" 

Alfred's eyes traced the constellations in the sky, pale aginst the twinkling city lights in Paris. He was searching for the plane, Spirit of St. Louis, of Charles Lindbergh. The boy who promised he could fly from New York to France. Flying across the Atlantic Ocean hadn't been done before, and Alfred was shaking and sweating. He wanted it to happen; he had put so much hope in Charles making it ever since he heard it on the radio. There had been others that did not make the flight, but here he was in Paris drinking whiskey as he waited for the sound of an American plane flying overhead. 

Alfred wasn't sure what to say. Statistically, the idea seemed impossible, and the death count proved it to be lethal, but Charles Lindbergh seemed resourceful and smart. He had as much of a chance as the last six, and Alfred would give him that chance until he was in Paris or dead. Instead of answering, he gulped down the whiskey and let it burn his throat. 

Francis softly hummed, "if he makes it, he will be a hero. The whole world is watching the lone eagle." 

Alfred didn't need that reminder. 

Somewhere, in the room behind them, a clock chimed out. It was 9:30 pm. Charles Lindbergh had three more hours before the world lost hope in him. 

Francis swept up his coat and hat that rested on the back of his long-abandoned chair and beamed at Alfred. "The airfield awaits us, America." 

Alfred had no other choice but to follow him. 

~~

An hour later, the sky was still empty. Alfred's suitcoat felt too hot, and he was sure he was sweating, but he didn't dare remove the heavy coat. He couldn't, anyway, not with people pressed around him as they eagerly watched the skies. 

Two more hours.

Francis smiled, the mood of the people around him, making his blue eyes brighter than usual. At least, it seemed like that to Alfred. A smile itched at Alfred's lips. It seemed the giddiness and the alcohol were finally letting him relax. He grinned back at Francis, but the action was lost in the roar of a plane descending upon them. The glint of grey metal caught Alfred's eyes, The Spirit of St. Louis, and his stomach seemed to settle with the plane. 

Charles Lindbergh had landed in Paris after flying over the Atlantic Ocean. He landed at 10:22 pm on May 21, 1927. 

The crowd soared forwards and dragged Alfred along. He didn't mind; he ran with them towards the plane. His mind was racing with excitement, and Alfred let out a loud yell. 

One of his boys had done it. 

The pilot stepped out of the plane, his eyes meeting Alfred's as he walked through the crowd. Alfred grinned and saluted him as he passed. As the two shook hands, a camera flashed.

"You did good, Lindbergh, it's nice to see one of my boys make it through." 

"Alfred wasn't sure if Charles could hear him through the yells and chatter of the crowd. He didn't think it mattered. Alfred gave the pilot one last smile before disappearing into the crowd, leaving Lindbergh stunned in his place. 

Decades later, in a photographic history of aviation exhibit, Alfred found himself staring at the old photo of Charles Lindbergh and the Nameless Man. The picture was from a newspaper, it's wrinkled and torn in the corner, but he can recognize his smile even in the faded ink. 

Time has changed; it's been nearly a hundred years from that day, Alfred doesn't wear suits regularly, and he certainly isn't worried about his people flying over the Atlantic. It's odd, seeing something like this being considered history. It reminded Alfred of how old he truly was, and how times shifted constantly. 


End file.
